


Dear Diary

by allofthefandoms



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Confessions, Diary/Journal, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:12:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthefandoms/pseuds/allofthefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was cruel, Clint decided, that he only found Phil's diary after he had died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 8/14/2011-I hate how much I want him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kisleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisleth/gifts).



> This is a collection of journal entries about Phil's relationship with Clint. There is poetry, pining and a possible happy ending.
> 
> Please note that these will not be in chronological order, rather reflecting a more emotional arc which will include 'flashback' entries and drabbles.

How is it possible to be so in love with someone who has no want of me? I know he sees me as a friend, perhaps even a close one, but I know he can’t love me. I suppose I’m lucky that I’ve remained his handler, but I know that’s more than I can ask for. And that’s why I can’t tell him. Because he’ll want a transfer if I tell him and I won’t be able to stop it.

I was reading Shakespeare again today. God it’s like the man can read my mind:

A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted  
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;  
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted  
With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion;  
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,  
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;  
A man in hue, all ‘hues’ in his controlling,  
Much steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.  
And for a woman wert thou first created;  
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,  
And by addition me of thee defeated,  
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.  
But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,  
Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.


	2. 8/20/2012-In Medbay Again

He hasn’t woken up in 2 days. The chair is too hard and my back hurts, but I promised him back when I first became his handler that I wouldn’t let him wake up in medical alone, and I know that as soon as I leave he’ll wake up, and I’m not going to break such a simple promise. At least I have a few books from the office to keep me company. And Nick somehow managed to find me an old battered copy of a translation if Pablo Neruda’s ‘Cien Sonetos de Amor’.  
I need to stop reading love poems, because all of them are Clint.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,  
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.  
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms  
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;  
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,  
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.  
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;  
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,  
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,  
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


	3. 1/12/2002

I wouldn’t have thought he would have taken to poetry the way he has. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m reading aloud to him. Mr. Barton sometimes feels like a child in a man’s body, and I pity him, even as he is lashing out and screaming blindly at people in medical. I’m finding myself gladder and gladder that the order was to bring him in rather than just eliminating him as had been the first plan. He’s just a hurt scared kid after all.  
Part of me resents that I’m the one who has to nanny him, but his love of poetry is rather redeeming. He fell asleep to me reading Czeslaw Milosz, so I can’t fault his taste. The poem was Song on The End of the World. Fitting.

On the day the world ends   
A bee circles a clover,   
A Fisherman mends a glimmering net.   
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,   
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing   
And the snake is gold-skinned as it it should always be. 

On the day the world ends   
Women walk through fields under their umbrellas   
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,   
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street   
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,   
The voice of a violin lasts in the air   
And leads into a starry night. 

And those who expected lightning and thunder   
Are disappointed.   
And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps   
Do not believe it is happening now.   
As long as the sun and the moon are above,   
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose   
As long as rosy infants are born   
No one believes it is happening now. 

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet,   
Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,   
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:   
No other end of the world there will be,   
No other end of the world there will be.


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's POV

It was a simple black leather moleskin notebook, the only marker of ownership a pair of simple initials. PC. If Clint hadn’t been bowled over by grief, he would have made a computer joke. But Clint can barely breath, has to force himself to get up, to shower, to eat. Suffice to say, jokes take a little more energy than he has.

It’s the only thing Clint took before SHIELD designated movers cleaned Phil’s flat out, stuff going God knows where. Part of Clint hopes they end up giving Phil’s suits to the homeless and unemployed. It’s a nice thought, the idea that Phil’s things are going to people who need them, rather than the SHIELD incinerator. Clint knows they can’t take risks, not with an agent whose clearance was as high as Phil’s and so he had to take something, anything, and the iPod filled with music Phil had given him didn’t count, because it wasn’t his, though the music was all stuff he loved.

He started from the beginning, getting the smallest taste of Phil before Clint. And then came the poetry, the damning confessions of confusion and love. Clint remembered the first days, where Clint had still been sick and weak and angry, and Phil’s voice had been the steadiest thing he had ever had in his life. He ran his fingers over the precise script, fighting to keep his tears from hitting the pages.

It wasn’t fair. Clint had loved Phil, still did, and it wasn’t until all he had was a cold stone and an empty coffin that he learned that Phil had felt the same.


	5. Bring Him Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had unexpected Les Mis feels, and they fit perfectly here. Sorry I'm not sorry.

He caught me humming Les Miserables of all stupid things. One fucking Day More. And the first thing out of that perfect cupid’s bow of a mouth is that I have a beautiful voice. ‘Buttery’ he said. And then he wanted to know what I was singing, and we ended up renting all of the 25th Anniversary show of Les Mis. He cried, though to this day he claims it was dust.

And then when he was in medical again, his chest bloody ribbons, I couldn’t help but sing. I had always loved Valjean, but taking care of Clint, being his rock and his anchor, made me really understand for the first time why a man would pray like that for someone else.

God on high  
Hear my prayer  
In my need  
You have always been there

He is young  
He's afraid  
Let him rest  
Heaven blessed.  
Bring him home  
Bring him home  
Bring him home.

He's like the son I might have known  
If God had granted me a son.  
The summers die  
One by one  
How soon they fly  
On and on  
And I am old  
And will be gone.

Bring him peace  
Bring him joy  
He is young  
He is only a boy

You can take  
You can give  
Let him be  
Let him live  
If I die, let me die  
Let him live  
Bring him home


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, things are looking like they are starting to come together. This is the first chapter with two POV's. I think it's pretty clear, but it was time for Clint's reactions to be beside the entries.

The first thing Clint ever shared with me was a battered old guitar. Seeing the thing, missing a string and so scuffed and bruised I thought I would break it did something to me, and it was that day that I offered to take him to buy a new one.

It was like taking a kid to a candy shop. He spent hours just running his hands over the bodies of the acoustic guitars, and when he picked up the first one he played, his fingers seemed to dance. I couldn’t tell you for the life of me what he played, but I could paint a picture of the way his hands moved, or the soft smile playing at his lips.

I’m pretty sure that was the moment I knew I would never love anyone quite like I loved Clint Barton.

~ ~ ~  
Clint still has the guitar Phil bought for him over 10 years ago. The wood is faded, but Clint always kept new strings on it, and no guitar ever sounded quite as good to him.  
He hasn’t played since Phil died, almost a month ago.

It’s a little strange for Clint to think that there have been 30 whole days where the world has figured out how to keep turning without Phil Coulson. He simply can’t fathom that people could function without him. God knows it’s been a chore for him.

But when he picks up that old guitar and finds it’s gotten out of tune, he won’t stand for it, and fixes and replaces the strings until he can get clear round chords from it again. His voice breaks over the first verse of “Halleluah” but be can’t help but pick the chords out over and over until his fingers hurt and he can’t see for all the burning tears.

 

Maybe there’s a God above  
But all I’ve ever learned from love  
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you  
It’s not a cry you can hear at night  
It’s not somebody who has seen the light  
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah


End file.
